


Let not light see my black and deep desires

by lily rose (annabeth)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Guilt, Implied Sexual Content, Incest, Language, M/M, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Dean Winchester, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: Dean comes back from Hellwrong.set during season 4.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 57





	Let not light see my black and deep desires

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a quote from Macbeth, also the prompt I used to inspire the fic.

Dean comes back from Hell _wrong_. It's insidious at first, a creeping rot that starts as a tiny seed in the depths of his heart but becomes more and more prominent as the days go by. And Dean doesn't know if it was Alistair, and his tender care, or if that rot was always there, a disease that hadn't been triggered yet.

All he knows is that he can't look at Sam straight on anymore. He's taken to the bottle like a man takes to a lover, and he won't justify it to Sam, who keeps giving him those compassionate, concerned looks that he usually gives the victims in one of their cases. Dean wants to yell _I'm not a case! I'm not a victim!_ , but he can't, because his soul—damaged and blackened—is begging to be classified as a case. It's definitely their sort of thing—or at least, he thinks it is.

Begging… Dean is, in the crannies of his heart, begging for things he can never have—should never have. Sam is sweetbread on the tongue in the south, and lemonade in the summer in New England, and a warm scarf wrapped around his neck in the winter in Michigan. He's especially that scarf, supposed to keep a man warm, but instead it strangles Dean. Or maybe it's Dean's desires that are strangling him, but Sam is the cynosure in his desires. The curl of Sam's hair, kissing his brow, or the veins in his bicep when he lifts a shotgun, or the music of his lips—beauty entrenched in Dean's heart and soul.

But this beauty is twisted, gnarled like a tree growing around a fence, or darkness that Dean can't see his way out of. There's nothing wrong with Sam—with the mirrors to his soul, the cadence of his being—but Dean's concentration on it, his fixation, is perverse, backwards.

Because that beauty dying in his heart is the beauty of Sam. It's Sam's sweet smile when he sees a kitten, or his hand pushing his hair back from his forehead, or his foot tapping on the Impala's floor to a song he likes—even the lie that he hates Dean's music. And Dean feels _lust_. He feels the deadly sin encroaching, and each night, he drinks a little more to compensate. He buries his head in his pillows once he's wasted enough to sleep, hoping, in some ways, that he'll smother himself with them. And he wakes early, every day, dragged kicking and screaming from his nightmares by his memories of Hell, and settles in with the bottle. If only the bottle _was_ a lover, or a substitute for one—because Dean has only one sexual urge these days, and it's focused on Sam.

Sam leaving the bathroom after a shower before, shirtless and dripping, towel slung low on his hips, never meant anything. It was the sort of thing they both did, with no earthly reason why they shouldn't, but now Dean's own body goes both hot and cold whenever he sees it. Hot, with lust coursing through his veins, straight to his heart and his cock; and cold, disgust clamoring for attention in his brain, wriggling like a worm through his skin, as if he's dead once again and being consumed.

Hot, and cold, because Sam is every lusty dream spun into a fantasy of flesh, each part of him perfectly in sync with every other part. Every feature bleeds to the next seamlessly, portraying the type of loveliness that is water to Dean's unending thirst, the desert of his desires.

Dean rolls over in the motel room bed, eyes bleary, head aching fiercely, with a mouth like cotton, and considers—once more—getting out of this bed before Sammy wakes up, grabbing his duffle, and finding a remote corner of some forest, the better to blow his brains out in peace—because it might be the only peace he's ever able to find again. But he won't, because while the only fit place for his desires to reside is in darkness, he can't—won't—leave Sam alone. Not again. And it isn't even altruism, though the major slice of that pie is concern for Sam, but Dean knows Sam will simply kill himself trying to get Dean back.

Even the fact that it's Dean's own decision wouldn't register as meaningful to Sam, and so he doesn't, and he won't. But now, with this fucked up, foolish, longing, Dean can't say for sure anymore what's wrong with them. They grew up together like two plants entangled, a dandelion and a lily, and to cut away the dandelion would be to kill the lily, and Dean knows now that that was wrong. That they should have been separated early, allowed to develop independently, two people distinct instead of one person in two bodies.

But how well does Sam know Dean, now? Would he recognize this rot stealing through him? Would he view Dean with disgust once he saw it? Well, of course he would; that's not the point, though, not really. Sam wouldn't be able to see his big brother the same way ever again—nor should he.

Dean remembers five towns and three weeks ago, when Sam thought of something in the lore that he thought was a breakthrough, while he was in the shower, and came running out to share it with Dean—and his towel, inexpertly folded, had lost its battle with gravity and fell to the floor like all of Dean's misgivings. How it fell so softly, as if in slow motion; how Dean's eyes had gone straight to Sam's uncovered dick where it was nestled and flaccid against his thighs. How it felt like a crossbow bolt to the chest, the way his body reacted—from soft and unthreatening to a shotgun blast to the face. His heart had begun to thunder in his chest like a violent storm, his breath had come fast, and he'd grabbed his latest bottle of Jim Beam and shoved past Sam, throwing the door open without a care for Sam's nudity in his hurry to escape. To get _away_.

What brother wants, to put as fine a point on it as possible, to fuck his brother till he breaks? To know the taste of the inside of his mouth, or whether he'd be soft in the secret openings of his body? Would his mouth feel like heaven—or hell? Would Dean's cock betray him, find pleasure where pleasure should never be found? Would his own heart turn twisted too, like a white flag flapping in the breeze, only to be stomped underfoot?

Was there any way to make this right? He's Sammy's only living family now. He's Sammy's last best hope for salvation—and what does that say, that Sam's salvation is wrapped up in Dean's damnation? He can't leave Sam; he can't _stay_ with Sam, either. Someday he'll simply _break_ , and then he'll _take_ , and there will be no unbreaking, and then, perhaps, only undertaking.

He's Sam's older brother. He's been protecting Sam since he carried him, six months old, from a burning building, and Sam has been cradled in his heart ever since. This was _never_ supposed to happen, this cancer that has eaten away his conscience. He _wants_ Sam with the type of yearning that could tear him apart— _is_ tearing him to shreds, bits and pieces scattered everywhere they go. In Santa Monica he may have left his little finger. In Wisconsin there might still be echoes of his voice, and in South Dakota, in an old, burned out building, he might have left his very soul. The only thing he seems to have kept is his cock, with all of its filth, the dirt that you only see on gas station bathroom floors. The muck that covers stagnant ponds.

Dean is a stagnant pool, flies drawn to it, and his breath nothing more than the waste of a good, cool breeze. Dean flumps over in the bed, smacking his pillow, and wishes the bottle of whiskey beneath the bed wasn't almost empty. He's facing the window, eyes unseeing, mind and sight turned inward, when the bed suddenly shakes.

"Dean." Sam jostles his shoulder. "Stop thinking about sneaking out the liquor store. You need to face your…" he trails away, and Dean clearly hears what he doesn't say. "Dude, come on. Talk to me. I'm your brother, there's nothing—"

"No?" Dean pops up in the bed, almost violently, and grabs Sam by the wrist. His brother winces, but he doesn't flinch away. "Are you sure? You better be sure, Sam."

"What do you want me to say? I'm not afraid of you, Dean! I could never be afraid of you, or disgusted by you, or hate you…" Sam doesn't try to free his wrist, and those hazel eyes with their striations of green and blue are focused on him, and Dean can't break that concentration. Sam is _seeing_ Dean, and Dean's terrified of just what he might see.

"Fuck you, Sam," Dean says, and drops his wrist like it's a cobra about to strike. In some ways it's exactly like that, because if Dean allows his brain to ruminate on how soft Sam's skin is… well, that way lies madness.

Sam's voice is very low, and incredibly urgent, when he says, "Is that what you want, Dean?"

_Let no light shine on my darkest, most secret desires,_ Dean thinks, averting his face—but it's too late, of course it's way too late, Sam is too perceptive by half.

"Dude, don't you remember your time before Hell?" Sam asks, gripping Dean by the chin and forcibly turning his face back. He searches Dean's eyes, then slumps a little, grasp loosening. "You don't remember." Sam shakes his head; his floppy hair swings to obscure his eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sam." Dean breaks Sam's grip and shoves him backward; Sam goes tumbling off the bed, arms windmilling, his face shocked, mouth wide open. He lands loudly—six-foot four of all that muscle makes a pretty dramatic noise landing on its ass—and swears a blue streak.

"You can't make me run away, Dean," Sam says. He sits up, rubbing the back of his skull where it bounced on the terrible, ripped up carpet.

"But you _should_ run," Dean says, angrily untangling himself from the sheets and getting to his feet, going to the window. He's barely dressed, but he throws open the curtains. Outside, it's raining, soft splashes on the ground and tiny plinks on the window. He's still staring outside when he catches sight of Sam's reflection.

"Dean, on your last night, before the Hellhounds came, you—no, _we_ —confessed to each other. _Together_ , Dean. Reciprocal, dude. I kissed you. I kissed you and I thought you'd punch me, but I had to do it before you were gone forever."

The fever inside Dean is raging at Sam's words. He wants to punch something all right, the window, his pillow, maybe the barrel of a gun.

"You can't be serious," Dean says instead. "I'm fucked, Sammy, I came back fucked in the head. I should have… you should have let me stay dead."

"But, Dean, I didn't choose for Castiel to resurrect you. I'm glad—I'm too overjoyed to breathe, some days—but the Crossroads Demon wouldn't deal with me. I was lost, hopeless. And I'm deadly serious. I'm a vampire to the jugular serious, Dean. I want—I thought we'd fucked for the last time. I thought I'd touched you, and you'd take the imprint of my mouth, my body, with you to Hell. But I never thought to have you back."

"I'm different, Sam."

"You're my brother, Dean, my big brother. The man I've idolized my whole life. That hasn't changed, not at all. And if you turn around—"

Dean whirls around. "And what, Sam?"

"And this," Sam says, and he kisses Dean like a heart attack, sudden, shocking, and unexpected—and yet, unlike heart disease, it's something beautiful somehow, darkly entrancing, a shimmer of mist obscuring Dean's eyes.

The loathing, the dismay, the disgust… it all burns away like fog does when the sun comes up, and Sam—beautiful, heartbreaking Sam—is the sun Dean needed to nourish his soul. Sam is the water that drenches his heart, and the soft breezes that nurture the flower of love unfolding in his breast.

Dean doesn't know when it happened, but his hands are delving deep in Sam's hair, stroking his scalp, and the kiss just goes on… and on… and on.

END


End file.
